Sea Green
by Mike2115
Summary: Finnick Odair and Annie Cresta competed in Hunger Games five years apart. Despite all of the horrors of the arena they faced, they found each other. 65th/70th Games, running parallel. Mockingjay, Catching Fire spoilers.


**Author's Note: **This might be an extended story, I wanted to write Finnick and Annie's entire games. They were hardly addressed in the canon, so I am taking creative liberties for the most part while keeping the core of their experiences in place.

Comments and Critique are appreciated. Knowing that people are reading this is the only way it will continue, so if you like what you see let me know.

I do not own The Hunger Games, Finnick Odair, Annie Cresta, or anything related to this story. Aside from the original characters, I suppose.

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><p>Nothing quite prepares you for the moment the town square's silence is broken by the call of your name. The words cause a murmur that cascades outward from the front of the stage. Heads turn towards where I stand motionless, knowing that my friend's first instinct was to breath a sigh of relief that their own name was not uttered into the microphone. Their second instinct is to look upon the face of the condemned. Formerly only known as a fisherman's youngest son, someone high above has taken a brand to my forehead. I am now known across Panem as Tribute.<p>

Despite all of my training I find myself hesitating to step forward. At least I am better prepared than the young woman who stands on stage, already shaking in fright of what is to come. She is a year older than I am, but she is a schoolgirl. Was a schoolgirl, rather; her branding is just as absolute as mine.

No more than ten seconds have passed since my name was called and the friends who once stood at my side have given me two feet of space, as if I had contracted some kind of disease. They look at me and shake their heads sadly, knowing that it the chances of my return are infinitesimal. At least their reactions to the girl were worse. Before I have time to hesitate any further, a peacekeeper's gloves close around my collar, roughly pushed me out of line. I stumble, but not enough to fall. I am acutely aware of the cameras turning towards me, to film my every action for the rest of my life. However long that might be will depend on the next several days. It dawns on me that this is the first chance to make an impression. Impressions can be the only thing that can save your life in this game.

A smile to rival the pearls of our district comes across my face as I turn to the peacekeeper that removed me from line.

"I wouldn't shove your future victor. He might get damaged." The peacekeeper's visor blocks his eyes, but his mouth twitches with either distaste or bemusement. Lifting my head, I stride through the crowd without time to look back. There is another wave of muttering, a few small laughs at my display. The horribly pampered woman from the Capital even seems to be taken aback as I take her side on stage.

"Would you like to say a few words?" She asks into the microphone. The girl opposite me shakes her head quickly. The woman turns to me, making the same offer. From this close I can see how caked on her makeup is, beads of sweat running down her face. She obviously wasn't expecting our district to be so humid. I am not looking forward to my time with her these next few days.

"See you in the Capital, Panem. I hope they're ready for me," I say into the microphone, smiling my most winning smile into camera two. The blinking red light is only reminding me that my face is being projected all across the country. Behind that smile, however, I know what I am about to face.

Twenty-three other tributes.

A game that was not designed to be won.

The district below me knows the stakes. I am not acting for their approval. Now it's the people of the Capital that need convincing, and every moment of screen time is a chance to seduce them. There is no time to lament my fate when there are hearts to be won in that crowd somewhere. If I can win them, I can win the games.

I can be the one to come out alive.

The sound system crackles and the Capital woman announces our names once more, for good measure. The girl is announced first. Her lip is trembling. I pretend not to notice it, as does the crowd. They are not going to be counting on her for anything, they have already decided. As the announcer turns to me, there is a slight swell in the crowd's volume. They are already talking about me.

"District Four, your male tribute for the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games… Finnick Odair!"

* * *

><p>"District Four, your female tribute for the Seventieth Hunger Games…. Annie Cresta!"<p>

The crowd claps lightly as my name is announced. I try to fake a smile for them, to feign some semblance of confidence. The district understands when the tears begin, but I can feel them already writing me off in the Capital. Fragile, Ceasar Flickerman would say in the recap. Perhaps not even mention me at all, glaze right over me in favor of the career tributes in Districts One and Two. My hands clench closed, already frustrated with myself.

In a way, it doesn't matter. The boy to my left and I will more than likely be dead in a week. Whether it is by our opponents, the gamemaker's traps or our own hand is the only variable left to be decided. What does it matter if I shed a few tears? Have we not earned that right?

That thought in itself is laughable. Rights, indeed.

As the Reaping ceremony is concluded, we are taken into the Town Hall. The smell of the sea is subdued by the building's stone facade. The absence of sea salt in the air gives this building a foreign feeling, as if we could be anywhere else in the world. There is nothing of home in this place.

My father does not come to see me off. He cannot be moved from the hospital, and I am forbidden to leave the tiny room the peacekeepers have placed me in. I realize it is likely no one told him what happened at the Reaping. He will find out soon enough. I spend the allotted visiting time with my head on the table, weeping. A Peacekeeper is kind enough to get me a glass of water. I thank him quietly, but refuse to touch it.

Soon my fellow tribute and I are loaded into the train to the Capital. We should be there in two days, the Capital woman in charge of ceremonies announces. She is reapplying a layer of makeup over her already caked on layers of makeup, going on about our District's finely crafted lipstick. I wonder what her real face looks like, or if she is just some sort of skeleton beneath the layers of cosmetics with no real face of her own. I leave her in the middle of a sentence, trying to escape the urge to claw off her years of foundation. I don't think she even notices my absence.

My fellow tribute is a young, strong boy, but he is no career. He stands by the window, watching the sea pass by. I join him, watching the waves lap along the edge of our district. He probably has never spent a day away from the sea.

"I'm Leif," he says quietly.

"Annie," I whisper back, as if he hadn't heard my name broadcast to our entire district. Our train moves away from the coast, the waves becoming blocked by trees.

"I don't want to die, Annie," Leif chokes on his words. My vision begins to blur for the third time today. I try not to burst into tears; instead they silently slide down my cheeks. The taste of salt water on my lips is comforting. We stand next to each other for a long while, neither of us daring to speak. Everything we could say has already been said.

A hand enters the space between the two of us, holding out a small mountain of tiny squares. I had hardly noticed anyone else was in the room. He speaks up as we both turn to face him, a coy smile played across his lips, as if this is some kind of game he's already figured out.

"Want a sugar cube?"

* * *

><p>The woman holding the saucer out to me looks to be about seventy. I was so lost in the canyons of wrinkles on her face that I didn't hear her offer. She repeats herself.<p>

"Finnick, sugar cube?" I take one, dropping it into the tea in front of me. Azure, the girl who has been in tears since the reaping, declines. The saucer is put down on the glass table.

"My, what an excellent display that was at the reaping! Tell me, are you an actor, Finnick?" As she rapidly prepares her own tea, the old woman across from us seems far too lively. She hasn't even introduced herself yet, but she's already commending my defiance and tutting on about how Azure's tears aren't going to win her any favors in the Capital.

"Oh, they'll love you, though, dear," She turns to me again. "A smile and laugh in the face of the Games from a fourteen year old? And what a looker! Give those buzzards in the Capital a few years, they'll be eating out of your hands!" She pats my face. I suppose my fellow tribute and I look dazed, because the woman across from us takes a moment to sip her tea quietly, looking from one of us to the other.

"I don't mean to be rude, but who are you?" I finally have to ask, since it doesn't seem like she will be forthcoming with this information if left to her own devices.

"Call me Mags, dear. Winner of the eighth annual Hunger Games, and your new mentor," she extends a hand to both of us. "I don't suppose you would have heard of me, the Capital starts to phase out victors that make it past fifty. I haven't made a public appearance in fifteen years," she remarks, chuckling lightly to herself. All things considered, she has to be the least grim sight we've seen today. It's hard to believe that she was once a competitor. I wonder how many people she mentored only to see die once they got into the arena. More importantly, how many people has she killed? The thought that I am sitting across from a murderer causes the hair on my neck to stand on end. Now she seems far less like a doting grandmother and more like some form of vulture. I suddenly feel nauseous.

It seems my nausea is shared, because Azure jumps up from her chair, making a few quick excuses before running off to her cabin. Mags watches her go, stirring her tea slowly.

"I don't think she has what it takes," I say, and Mags turns her full attention to me. She seems to be looking for something in my face, and when she doesn't find it she asks for an explanation for my statement. "She's a schoolgirl, she isn't made for this sort of thing. She'll be one of the ones to die before the first day is through."

The old woman opposite me looks thoughtfully down into her tea, and before I know what happened she's thrown the cup into my face, teaspoon and all. It is lucky the liquid had been cooling, but even the lukewarm water is a surprise. The cup shatters against the floor.

"You think you know the arena, Mister Odair?" She snaps. "You should do yourself a favor and refrain from any judgments on your fellow competitors, because you have no idea what a schoolgirl can be capable of. Give her a knife and a chance, she'll take your pretty face right off as easily as you gutting a fish."

As she gets up to leave, she hisses another word of advice. "Best get in your fun while you can. They go for the pretty, cocky ones first."

Her face clears and she smiles, her voice losing its terrifying edge. She looks like a grandmother once more. "Try not to be late for breakfast, dear."

* * *

><p>"You're late," Finnick says as I enter the dining car. I mumble an apology and sit down across from him before I realize he is the only one awake and the sun is barely up. He gives me another of his teasing smiles and I consider hitting him in the face, yet the dark circles under his eyes seem to indicate that he wasn't sleeping tonight anyway.<p>

"Are you alright? You look sick," I whisper as I regard the table in front of us. The breakfast spread is a sprawling assortment of fruits and jams and baked goods. I know that district Four is better off than some other districts, but I have never seen so much food in one place. I bite into a piece of toast.

"Victors don't get sick. The Capital gives us something for that," He laughs, but it is a hollow sound. He certainly isn't going to tell me what keeps him awake at night, and I'm not so uncourteous as to ask. I believe I can fill in the blanks on my own.

He says my full name out loud and I look up at him, but he's looking away. His lips mouth the words, but no sound comes out. It takes me a moment before I realize he's reliving the reaping. My reaping.

"How many years have you been a mentor?" I ask. He seems to jolt back to reality, but he's still looking away from me when he answers. Four years. Four years of watching children become tributes. A chill runs through my spine when I realize he was the last victor District Four had. Everyone he's ever mentored died in the arena.

He closes his eyes and exhales. After a moment his eyes snap open again, as if he was frightened by something behind his eyelids. It takes a moment for him to get his bearings, but his eyes settle on me and he remembers where he is. I realize he must be falling into short bouts of sleep, only to be awakened by nightmares. "I liked some of them, you know. The ones I liked most seem to be the ones to get killed first."

"Oh." That is not something a mentor says to inspire confidence in their tribute. I look down at the toast in my plate, but suddenly don't have the appetite for it. "What do you think of me?" It's only a whisper, but my face is burning with embarrassment even as the words slip out. I suddenly want to run back to my cabin and hide under the bed.

His hand reaches out and closes over mine, and for a moment our eyes lock. His eyes are the color of the ocean, but there is a shade of terror to them. Whether it is the memories of the arena that are breaking his beautiful façade or if it is the coming games that have him so concerned is unknown to me. He doesn't answer my question, however. Cynthia, the painted woman of the Capital, enters and begins chattering with him, and it takes me a full minute to realize his hand has left mine. I notice her make-up is just as caked on as the day before.

"One more day until we're in the Capital. Oh, you're going to love it, dear, nothing like District Four. I don't think you'll ever want to go back," Cynthia says.

I can't remember what happens next. By the time my memory returns, Finnick is wrenching me off my feet as I scream at her, flailing against his grip. Cynthia looks horrified form the floor, clutching her face with both hands. Finnick carries me to my cabin and I continue to scream, but instead of fighting back he sets me on my feet and puts his arms around me. I resist, until the moment I realize what's going on.

He's crying into my shoulder.

"Finnick?" I ask, my struggling subsiding. When he doesn't answer, I put my arms around him as tremors rack his body. I don't have the tears to cry with him, but his own have been kept inside for so long that he is overflowing.

"It's okay," I whisper, petting his hair to try and calm him down. But it isn't okay. For Finnick Odair, it hasn't been okay for a very long time.


End file.
